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Halo: Missing Shipment
Short story by Captain Aeon. Set on Cadmus, a brief interaction between a local crime lord and an appointed planetary administrator. Missing Shipment Cadmus, downtown Lockout 40, 1230 hours, nine hours until the storm The planet's administrator surveyed the concrete towers through the tinted, rain-splotched glass from the backseat of his car. A muted radio softly blared warnings of an incoming typhoon, warnings that seemed more and more credible with each gust of wind that buffeted the side of the car. Even now, the city already seemed to be shuttering itself down, glass windows being covered in sheets of steel to protect them, the heavy bulkhead doors of the buildings being closed and sealed to protect from the seemingly inevitable flood. The administrator sighed, doing his best to relax as he folded his arms. It wasn't easy when nearly every street corner and every poster board was plastered with recruiting material. A few posters he knew, he understood, he was familiar with. "Avenge Harvest, stop the Covenant, enlist with the UNSC today!" Those brought him some measure of comfort. Most didn't. Most posters were from a different source. "The Forty Clubs. Your home, your future." Emblazoned on each poster was a pair of crossed nightsticks and the number forty in large, block lettering. Even where there wasn't a poster, it was tattooed onto the side of building with spray paint, or nailed or plastered on in paper. Poles at bus stops and the backs of road signs weren't safe either, stickers bearing that same number covering seemingly every conceivable location, and giving a constant reminder of who was the true power in the city. With all the recruiting propaganda drowning everything else out, one might even forget that there was a genocidal war going on. The Forty Clubs weren't called Posters for nothing, after all. The administrator kneaded his brow, releasing a tired sigh. It wasn't the first time he had been in territory that would sooner see him gone, he had that experience plenty managing planets during the insurrection. It didn't mean he would ever quite get used to it though, the sharp gazes and scornful looks were hard to get used to. Then again, if things went poorly, the people here wouldn't be the ones to punish him, the UNSC would. Or more specifically, ONI, and with ONI's methods, he didn't want to think of what could happen to him if he got on their bad side. Pulling his mind out of the gutter, the administrator pressed down at a switch, lowering the sheet of privacy glass that divided him and the driver. He needed someone to talk to, someone to ease his nerves. With a shallow hiss, the glass slid away and the administrator flashed the driver a tired smile through the rear view. "You'd think with this weather that he'd be closing up shop about now. I'm halfway worried he'll cancel on me." His voice was deep and warm as he addressed the driver, hoping to find some solace with him. "We'll be arriving soon, Overseer. He hasn't cancelled." The driver responded bluntly, disinterested in the conversation. He didn't even turn his head, keeping his eyes forward on the wet, black asphalt. The overseer wanted to continue talking. He had never encountered a person he couldn't get talking after fifteen minutes. The edge of a tattoo on the back of the driver's neck, barely peeking out from behind the collar, had him reconsidering, however. Cresting just above the collar of the driver's jacket was a tattoo of the number forty, in that same block lettering. Not even human skin was safe from a poster, it seemed. -- Thankfully for the administrator, the ride didn't last much longer. Towers of concrete slowly changed from rusting and weathered to polished and mirrored, even if it was just a facade of metal and plastics paneling. The vehicle slowly came to a stop in front of another tower, this one introducing itself in simple, gilded lettering. The Plaza. He stepped out of the vehicle and into the torrential downpour, his synthetic blue and black work jacket shedding the rain poorly. His hair and beard were quickly plastered to his head as he rushed into the lobby hurriedly. The lobby itself was pristine by any standards, tiled with checkered white and black marble flooring, ornamented with brass light fixtures and filled out with dark wooden furniture. It was kept dry and cool, a stark contrast to the usual tropical humidity and heat outside. For the administrator who had just come in from the cold and was soaking wet, however, it was downright chilling. Shivering, he peeled off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, preferring the only slightly damp t-shirt beneath. He looked around the empty lobby, the only sounds the low, almost inaudible drone of the air conditioning and the patter of the rain outside. Were it not for the unlocked door and the lights on, he would have mistaken the place for locked down already. The administrator paced down the luxurious lobby, craning his head to take a look into some of the adjoining rooms. Among those, a casino to rob one of their credits, and a bar to rob one of their health and credits, and a few more doors locked off to the general public, staples of any fine establishment. He was about to call out when he heard the echo of sharp dress shoes through the silent halls. "Overseer Leonov." A tall, thin man greeted. Dressed in a high quality but loosely fitting suit jacket and white dress shirt, he bore the appearance of some rich man's son, with the arrogance of wealth, but none of the humility that came with earning it. If the administrator didn't know any better, he might have thought just that. He knew the scarecrow's face, though. Gaunt, with pitch black eyes and a patchwork of thin surgical scars covering his mug and running down his neck and chest, he was no ordinary rich man's son. "It's Pasha, Bartley, it's Pasha. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about our little meeting." The overseer said enthusiastically, smiling broadly as he practically ripped the thin man's arm from his side to shake it. Pasha had to look up to the man opposite him, short by just a few inches, and it struck him how opposed they were in terms of appearance. One man burly, stocky, older and built like a bear, and the other slim, frail and looking like a strong breeze could carry him away. Leonov's enthusiasm was matched only by the dourness of Bartley's reply. "I would prefer if you used Haldeman, overseer. I'd prefer to keep things formal." Bartley pulled his hand back, face stony as he stretched his hand, feeling like it had just been put into a vice. "Nonsense! There's no reason to let formality get in the way. We'd be better of if you and I were friends, there's no reason we can't see eye to eye and just speak plainly to each other like regular men. This may be our first time doing this, but I thought we could make it a bit of a habit, I come on down here and we sit, eat a nice lunch, and chew the fat for a couple of hours, discuss current events and such. I'm sure you'd agree, getting another's perspective is always useful for analyzing happenings." "No." Bartley matched the Russian's verbosity with curtness. Haldeman folded his arms across his chest, a frown slowly chiseling itself into his scarred, stony face. "I'm still confident I can make it happen, Bartley. I won't force you to an answer now, we'll get this meeting over with, it'll be an enjoyable experience, crack open a bottle of some wine or some vodka. Unfortunately, I left he bottle I meant to bring on my desk in Cadmea. It was good too, imported from Russia, I'm sure you would have loved it. The point remains, though, we're gonna have meetings in the future." Pasha's enthusiasm was hardly diminished as he laid out his plans for the future in front of his clearly displeased host. "No." Bartley repeated, wincing as Leonov called him by his first name. He let out a restrained sigh, tapping his foot impatiently against the marbled floor, echoing loudly in the silent room. "That's unfortunate, but I'm sure I can change your mind. So enough standing around, let's do this. I'm starving. Lead the way Bartley." Pasha said with a grin, shaking the other man's shoulder. "It's Haldeman, Overseer." He hissed through his teeth, turning around and gesturing for the overseer to follow. The pair weaved through a labyrinth of slot machines and card tables to the far end of the room, where a heavy set of shut wooden doors blocked the pair from continuing. Leonov moved to open the door for his host, only to find it was locked shut, brass handle unyielding in push or pull. Bartley brushed him aside, and grabbed the handle. The heavy lock slid aside with a clunk, and the scarecrow pulled the door open, swinging silently on well oiled hinges. "ID scanner in your palm, eh Bartley? I wouldn't have figured you for the type to indulge in implants. Well, aside from the necessary, of course." Pasha said, gesturing to his own eyes as he walked through the door held open for him into the open floor of a restaurant. "We can't have the rabble walking through our establishment freely, Overseer. A few slices of the scalpel are nothing compared to peace of mind." Haldeman replied coolly, letting the door swing closed slowly and silently behind him. The restaurant itself was decorated in much the same style as the lobby, pristine whites and blacks accented with gold and brass and polished dark woods. It bore the nondescript international style that was so popular in high class society, but with flares of baroque elegance to give it a more regal air. "Fair enough. I have to ask, is all the black and white because of your eyes?" Leonov asked, meeting the taller man's inky black eyes, organic ones having long since been replaced with pitch black cybernetic prosthetics. Because they lacked pupils, it was nearly impossible to tell what direction Haldeman was actually looking. "Astute observation. Yes, colors do nothing for me, unfortunately, so I had this place redone. The designers did quite well, I think." Bartley said, taking an appraising glance around the room before continuing on to a table in the center of the room. It was almost eerie, rain pattering on the reinforced windows of the empty room, everything in place from the candles to the napkins, only the people missing. As Bartley moved to his chair, his jacket caught on the edge of a table, lifting his coat for just a moment to reveal a handgun tucked behind into the back of his waistband. Once more, Leonov was unnerved. He didn't bring a weapon here, and he didn't have his guards either. He was sure every doorframe had a metal detector in it, and behind every closed door was a half dozen armed guards. Still, with the relationship their organizations had, he couldn't blame the young man for his caution. Leonov pulled out his chair and took a seat across from Bartley, hanging his soeaked jacket over the edge of an adjacent table. Once more, Leonov asked a question of his opposite. "I'm curious, Bartley. You're the leader of one of the most powerful and influential crime syndicates of our day and age, and yet, you don't take a title. Why?" Pasha probed, leaning back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "The man is more important than the title, and the organization is more important than the man, Overseer. That's how the Forty Clubs is run." He said quietly, folding his arms in displeasure as he listened to Leonov torture the expensive piece of furniture he was sitting on. "Is that why you have every vantage point within four and a half kilometers of here locked down so you don't get shot? Because the man is more important than the organization?" Leonov asked, barely paying attention as he continued to balance on the chair like a man half his age, finally crashing down forward, chest bumping the table and rattling the empty glasses and silverware loudly. Bartley smiled bitterly. "Organizations run better when their leaders aren't bisected by a Model-99, Leonov, I thought this much would be obvious." "Just asking, Bartley, no need to get defensive about it." He said scratching his beard. He was about to open his mouth when he heard the rattling of dishes and the slight squeak of small rubber wheels. Pasha looked behind Bartley to see a waiter approaching with a cart. "Lunch! Finally, I was about to complain." "And we couldn't have that, now could we?" Haldeman responded dryly, leaning back slightly as the waiter placed a dish in front of him. A high quality cut of steak, sliced thinly and served alongside crisp and buttery potatoes and asparagus spears. It steamed and sizzled, hot and inviting in the chilly room. "Steak? The hell did you get steak?" Pasha asked, almost scoffing at what was laid in front of him. The vegetables were grown hydroponically, a process that was already costly enough on a planet with no soil. Beef and meat in general was nearly impossible to get in any variety that wasn't processed forty times over, given that the planet physically couldn't raise cattle. The overseer himself hadn't had a solid slice of steak since he was back on Earth for a trail in court years ago. He skewered a slice on the end of his silver fork, holding it up in front of him and marveling at it a moment. "Imported from Reach. The chef as well. Both costly but worthwhile expenses. People will pay a premium for it here." The crime boss across the from the planetary administrator said, grabbing his own utensils and caring off a small piece of the steak, chewing the delicate piece slowly. He watched as Pasha tore into the meal zealously, a neutral expression in his weathered features as he listened to the sounds of cutting, chewing and swallowing over and over again. Finally, he tapped at the wooden table loudly to get Leonov's attention. "What did you come here for, Overseer?" Pasha murmured something through a mouthful of meat and potatoes, putting up a finger to ask for a moment. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face as he swallowed the buttery meal. With a satisfied grunt and restrained burp, the tossed napkin on the table and leaned back, groaning. "Compliments to your chef, Bartley, that's good stuff. Who's your supplier? I should see about getting some of this stuff in Cadmea." Haldeman was unamused with the casualness that the his opposite seemed to be taking this conversation. He didn't raise his voice, and simply repeated the question once more, slowly. "Overseer Pasha Andreevich Leonov, what, exactly, did you come here to discuss?" Pasha sighed, and sat forward, ignoring the delightful dish in front of him for the moment. He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to figure out the right words to say. The situation was delicate, to say the least. "So, Bartley, I came here for a bit of a discussion on a topic that's been a buzz among the UNSC recently. There was a shipment that went missing about two weeks ago now, and we're still looking into where it went. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, have any thoughts on it, would you?" "Shipments go missing all the time. You're going to have to be more specific." Bartley cocked his head, more engaged that they were finally talking business. Pasha had trouble meeting his pitch black stare as he replied, slowly considering his words. While he had some freedom with how he took this, the hounds at ONI would be on his ass if he gave away too much. "Related to ONI. Some experimental, highly classified stuff that was meant to be stored here until another vessel could pick it up and whisk it away. Unfortunately, it went missing six hours after it hit the ground. You know anything about this shipment?" "Are you asking me if I stole it?" Bartley asked seriously, scarred brow furrowed as he watched the overseer closely. "Yes, but I'm also asking if you know if anyone else stole it. ONI has been having a tough time figuring out where there shipment went, and the axe is lining up over my neck if I don't get this resolved. So I decided to go to someone who knows Cadmus better than anyone else." Pasha said guiltily, admitting the gravity of the situation for him. Bartley sighed and closed his black eyes for a moment, either scouring his mind for the incident the overseer was referring to, deciding how to respond, or simply pausing for dramatic attention. "I'll tell you what I know. It wasn't the Sixers. Hazaro has never been that subtle, and her checkbooks show no record of such an operation. It wasn't the One-O Whalers, it wasn't the Cadmea Barons, and it definitely wasn't the Twenty-Two Metallurgists. That is, if this is what I'm thinking of. Watershed Division?" Leonov listened attentively, and wondered what this information would cost him. The arguably most powerful man on the planet didn't work for free. At the question, Pasha was slow to respond. He only had so much leeway to give. Then again, compliance meant he could see how far this young man's fingers really reached, valuable information by itself. "Yes." He finally answered, for once giving a curt reply. Bartley, eyes still closed, hummed lightly, and Pasha was once more unable to read the young man, something that was exceedingly rare for him. Once more, the crime boss answered with a question. "Second generation Semi-Powered Infiltration armor, experimental shielded variant?" "That would be the one. I'm sure you know that saying that just about guaranteed a search of your assets?" Pasha asked, a strange smile on his face. The contents of the transport weren't even officially booked as SPI armor. Knowing what they were required either stealing the shipment or having some contacts far up the pipeline. He made a note to recommend a thorough background check on all personnel involved with Cadmus' logistics. "I'm well aware, Overseer, I'm well aware. Your most likely culprit is Crimson Bloom in Dragon's Teeth." Bartley stated, the thin, unamused frown returning to his face. "And the Clubmen, of course." Leonov added, chuckling. While he couldn't reasonably expect Haldeman to self incriminate, they both knew that the syndicate was one of the prime suspects. "And the Clubmen." Leonov agreed tepidly, sighing. "The Bloom has been quite abuzz with activity recently. Off-world hires, extra expenses, a number of quite large transactions, most of which coinciding with the arrival of the ship that brought in the armor. They chartered a ship recently under a different name. Not their usual venture." "So what, you think they're hiding the armor on a boat somewhere while they find a buyer?" Pasha asked, shuffling his fork through his fingers. Given what he knew about the man across from him, pretty much all of what he said up to this point was true. The more truth Bartley said, the longer ONI would spend chasing down the Bloom instead of Clubmen. Then again, it just like him to send them on a hunt for the wrong prize. "With what I know, that's where my money is, Leonov. That, or your shipment got lost somewhere farther back, though I think the former is more likely." Bartley picked up his knife and fork once more, and began to pick at his meal, attention shifting away from the Overseer. "It would be like them to lose a package and send me to upturn the planet looking for it, wouldn't it?" Pasha replied with a deep chuckle. Leaning back, the overseer stretched in his seat, groaning. "Now, Bartley, I understand that these kind tips usually have a price associated with them where you come from. What's has this one cost me?" Leonov asked, curious to see what the young man would charge him for the nudge in the correct, or perhaps incorrect, direction. "The price? Nothing. Act on this information as you will." Bartley said, shrugging off the question. "Nothing? I didn't take you for one to give handouts, least of all to little old me." Pasha asked quizzically. The leader of a criminal empire didn't get to his seat through generosity. The young man paused to finish chewing his steak, swallowing and wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin before answering. "I certainly benefit from this, overseer. There's much I stand to gain from this, you're simply not the one picking up the bill." "What, you want to use the UNSC to deal with the Crimson Bloom and take out a competitor? Is that the gist of it?" Pasha asked, probing further. It wasn't a bad plan, by any stretch, an admirable one, even. A full scale war between two cities would be costly. Merely tattling and getting someone else to fight the battle cost next to nothing. "Something like that." Haldeman answered, neither confirming nor denying the question. He had a rare smile on his face, and it flickered for a moment before resuming his inscrutable mask.